In the Blood
by coolbyrne
Summary: A British profiler teams up with the CSI team to track down a serial killer. WIP. Case-file, implied GSR, cross-over with a character you've probably never heard of.
1. Chapter1

TITLE: In the Blood

AUTHOR: coolbyrne

RATING: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: Case file, implied GSR, cross-over

DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means.

SPOILERS: Small reference to "TAIE". That's it, I think.

DISCLAIMER: All references to CSI belong to CBS, JB, AZ, et al. Dr. Tony Hill, Carol Jordan, and Paul Bishop belong to Val McDermid. All characters and places, whether they belong to me or not, are fictional. Well, except Vegas. I believe that's real.

FEEDBACK: Compliments/constructive criticisms are always appreciated. Send any combination of the above to coolbyrne@as-if.com. Flames will be gleefully mocked in other forums.

SUMMARY: A British profiler teams up with the CSI team to track down a serial killer.

A/N: This fic incorporates a character by the name of Tony Hill, a profiler from author Val McDermid's fantastic series, the first being "The Mermaids Singing", the second being "The Wire in the Blood", and the latest being "The Last Temptation". I wholeheartedly recommend these books. However, prior knowledge about Dr. Hill is not necessary in order to follow this story. Those who have read the books might get small "inside" comments, but I don't think it will take away from the story if you don't "know" him.

My everlasting gratitude to papiliondae for her beta-ing and her friendship.

*

The profoundest of all sensualities

is the sense of truth

And the next deepest sensual experience 

is the sense of justice.

"The Deepest Sensuality"- D.H. Lawrence

*

Taking a moment to survey his surroundings, he wondered if there was some kind of universal template for police stations. Once the door closed, effectively separating him from the bright lights that over ran Las Vegas, he would have been hard pressed to place the station in Sin City or London. With the exception of a few missing "u"s and misused "z"s on posters and notifications, it all seemed the same; right down to the stale smell of smoke that had still lingered long after the policies against such a vice had come into effect.

He noticed a close-cropped boy, who looked barely old enough to have left the academy, manning what looked to serve as a reception desk. At his approach the officer raised his eyes from the stack of papers in front of him.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. I'm Dr. Tony Hill. I have an appointment to see…" he reached into his pocket to retrieve the piece of paper, "Sheriff Brian Mobley. Is he in?"

McKey, according to the name tag neatly pinned to his uniform, gazed momentarily at Tony.

"It's the accent, isn't it?" Tony asked with a wry smile.

"Yeah," the young cop admitted. "I don't think I've heard that since my girlfriend dragged me to see an Ivory Merchant flick."

"Merchant Ivory," Tony corrected.

McKey smiled and shrugged, "Tomato, tomahto, right?"

"Indeed."

The phone rang, "Through the double doors, down the hallway, third door on the left." McKey directed as he reached to answer the call.

Tony thanked him and made his way down the required hallway. Third on the left was a thick mahogany door bearing the shiny nameplate of "Sheriff Brian Mobley". With two knuckles, Tony rapped on the imposing barricade.

"Come in," came the gruff invitation.

The door swung open smoothly and for the second time that day he was asked, "Can I help you?"

"Tony Hill. I had an appointment."

The blank expression on the Sheriff's face didn't change.

"Profiler. From England?" Tony prodded. "I sent you information on a series of murders I think might be connected to a case you had a little over two weeks ago."

Nary a change in the expression. "Ah, yes. Dr. Hill. How can I help you?"

The Englishman raised the folder in his hand. "I was hoping we could take a closer look at your case and…"

Mobley bristled. "My men worked overtime on that case for a full two weeks. They left no stone unturned."

"I'm not implying that they did, Sheriff. It's a simple matter of getting the information from the officers while it's still fresh in their minds."

"I'm afraid I can't spare them, Dr. Hill. Budget restrains have my staff over-stretched as it is. My hands are tied, I'm sorry. It's unfortunate that you've come a long way for nothing." He sat back and laced his fingers together where they rested on his chest. "Quite frankly, I didn't see the connection between your case and ours then, and I don't see it now. You're talking about a serial killer. I wouldn't think one murder in Las Vegas defines the term."

"They do have to start somewhere," Tony noted.

Ignoring the curtness in the reply, Mobley continued, "I had a chance to speak with your commander and he concurred with my opinion."

"Ah, well, with all due respect to my commanding officer, Paul Bishop is often more interested in the politics of a situation rather than the procedure."

Mobley looked at him as if he had sprung another head.

"Oh, I see," said the Englishman. "It's not just a British phenomenon then." 

Before Mobley had the chance to verbally show him the door, Tony softened his tone. 'Flattery, Tony, flattery. Imagine yourself back in the squad room in Bradfield where every uniform is quick to dismiss your profession.'

"Sheriff Mobley, you certainly know what goes on in this city better than me. But as you say, I've come a long way, and I've lost all my spare cash at the slots," he pasted on a smile, "so if I could impose on your hospitality and ask if I may be allowed to at least talk to your forensics team. Just so I can leave knowing I've crossed all the i's and dotted all the t's." He saw the hesitancy in the man's eyes. "What harm could it do?"

"I thought you only wanted to talk to the officers involved in the case?"

"Are your CSIs not officers of the court?"

Mobley thought about this for a moment. "Very well. As a courtesy, I'll approve a visit with the CSIs. But Dr. Hill," his tone deepened, "please don't abuse the courtesy." Judging the conversation to be finished, Mobley returned to his papers, but not before adding, "In the meantime, you might as well get out and enjoy as much of Vegas as you can. Gil Grissom works the night shift."

"Thank you." Tony extended his arm and shook the other man's hand. "I appreciate all your help." He had had enough practice back home to make it sound more sincere than he felt.

*

"Now this is another world!" he thought later that night, as the doors to the lab building hissed shut behind him. No cramped quarters, no boxes of files piled from floor to ceiling, no vaguely musty smell for this lab. This was white, blinding white, pristine and huge. That was the only way he could describe it.

He was still immersed in his mental sightseeing when he felt the jarring sensation of running into another body. His folder spilled across the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized as he joined a dark haired woman in collecting the errant papers and photos.

"Completely my fault," she corrected.

As they stood, the last pieces gathered from the floor, she tilted her head and looked at him. He felt her gaze catalogue him and he wondered what categories she was putting him in. Late 30's; about six feet tall; short dark hair; a fashion sense delayed by about three years; a lived in troubled face brought to life by piercing active blue eyes. He'd have to ask his sometime work partner and longtime friend, Carol Jordan if that had been her thumbnail analysis of him when they first met. In the meantime, the warm curiousness in the brown eyes of the woman in front of him put him at ease and he waited until she was finished.

Seemingly satisfied she had collected all the evidence that was available, she said, "You're new or you're lost."

He smiled. "Is it the accent that just screams, 'Stranger'?" 

He was rewarded with her smile which revealed a rather endearing gap between her front teeth.

"Well," she explained, "you work here long enough and you get to know everyone, especially on the night shift."

"Yes, it takes a special kind of breed to work these ungodly hours." He held out his hand and discovered a magazine in his grasp. "Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science," he read. "Definitely not mine."

She looked down at the photo still in her hand. Her eyes swept across the horrible image, not with revulsion, he noted, but with a detached interest. "Definitely not mine," she echoed. Catching his gaze, she admitted, "Sometimes I feel guilty for being able to stomach things like that."

He shook his head as they exchanged photo and magazine. "Don't be. Empathy isn't in outward expression alone." He slipped the photo into the folder and extended his hand, now bereft of paper, once again.

"Tony Hill."

"Sara Sidle."

"Well, Ms. Sidle, it was a pleasure running into you."

She smiled back. "Call me Sara."

"If you call me Tony." Seeing her nod, he continued, "I'm looking for someone here named Gil Grissom. Do you know him?"

Sara squinted her eye and twisted her mouth as if giving the question some thought. "Gil Grissom… Gil Grissom… oh, right, that would be my boss. I can take you to him, if you want. Our shift doesn't start for another half an hour, but I'm willing to bet he's around here somewhere."

He continued filing these bits and pieces of information he was learning about her when he realized he was caught.

"You're analyzing me," she said, amazed.

"No."

"Yes, you are," she smiled, letting him off the hook. "Wait, let me guess. You're a profiler."

Tony's eyebrows arched, an action rarely seen. "That's quite good. How did you know?"

"You're kidding, right?" His look encouraged her to continue. "Dr. Tony Hill, BSc, DPhil? You have the highest solve rate of serial killings than anyone in Britain."

He felt his face warm at this unexpected praise. "How in the world…"

Sara shrugged. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I read it somewhere." When she saw a look that was rapidly becoming familiar, she said wryly, "You can file that away while I take you to see Grissom."

*

She leaned into the doorway.

"Grissom." His raised head served as his reply. "There's a Dr. Tony Hill out here to meet you. Profiler. Came all the way from England." She wagged her eyebrows.

Grissom pursed his lips in interest. "Tell him to come in."

Sara stepped aside and tilted her head towards the office. "Go ahead, Dr. Hill."

He nodded his thanks. "I thought I had mentioned it was Tony.," he chided. At her grin, he added, "You can join us if you like. I suspect you'll have an interest in this, and it will be one less person I have to explain it to later."

"Okay," she agreed and followed his gesture inside. She found a chair off to the side and watched as Tony made his introduction.

"Mr. Grissom, thank you for taking the time to see me." He offered his hand.

Grissom stood up and returned the greeting. "I have to admit, I'm not sure what this is about, Dr. Hill."

"It's Tony," Sara chimed in from her seat, and shrugged when Grissom gave her a pointed look.

"She's right, by the way," Tony said, then continued, "I'm here about a case you had approximately nineteen days ago. The murder of a priest."

Grissom wordlessly motioned for Tony to take a seat, as he did the same. "I remember it. Missing a left hand."

"That's the one."

"And what is it about this case that brings you all the way here?"

"Well, as I tried to explain to your Sheriff Mobley, I've been tracking down a serial killer in England who has the same signature."

"And what did Mobley have to say about that?"

"Standard brush-off. Quite frankly, I expected something with a bit more creativity."

From the corner of the room Sara piped up, "I think creativity for Mobley consists of figuring out which tie looks better on camera."

Tony chuckled. "Yes, I got that impression. It helps that I'm not a stranger to the political machinations at home."

"So what can we do to help you here?"

Laying his folder on Grissom's desk, he began, "First, if I could ask you to take some time to review the other seven cases."

"Seven?" Grissom repeated. "No wonder Mobley wanted to ignore it. Nothing worse for a political career than a serial killer on the loose."

Tony nodded. "If you could take a look and let me know if I've gone completely round the bend or not, on this one? If not, I'd like to review your evidence and perhaps speak to your team, or whoever worked the case. Maybe by coming at it from a different angle, I'll hear or see something others might have missed the first time round."

Now it was Grissom's turn to nod. "I don't see anything wrong with that. But I have to warn you, I don't know how much help we can be. As I'm sure you know, by the time we get there, the crime scene has gone cold."

"Yes," he agreed, "but we all know that's when the heart of the case begins."

"Can we keep him?" 

Grissom gave Sara a stern look tempered by a small smirk that spread across his face. "Sara, why don't you show Tony where the break room is? I'll skim through this and meet you there in," he flicked out his wrist, "twenty minutes?"

Sara jumped up and rubbed her hands together. "C'mon, Tony. I'm sure I could round up a cup of tea somewhere."

*

The break room was bigger than his office.

"Everything is so big here," Tony remarked.

"Welcome to Las Vegas," Sara replied. "Have a seat wherever. I know I saw some tea bags here somewhere." She crouched down and started rummaging through the lower cupboards.

"We do drink coffee, you know."

She turned around on the balls of her feet. "Would you prefer coffee?"

"Well, no, I prefer tea, but…"

"That's what I though," she said with a lopsided grin.

"Don't ever change that smile," Tony said.

She turned again, taken aback by his comment until she finally gave him an honest, "Thanks. My parents never had the money when I was a kid, and now that I have the money, I couldn't imagine going around with braces at my age."

Tony smiled at the image. "Well, that's good. It makes you immediately unique. Not everyone can say that."

"Careful," she warned, "or we will keep you." Standing victoriously, she held up a square packet. "Aha! Tea! I knew it." She looked around for a clean cup. "So," she said as she tore the packet open, "tell me what makes you unique."

*


	2. Chapter2

A/N: Forgot to mention, this WIP will be updated daily. Looks like a total of about six, maybe seven chapters. Thanks to those who have left feedback. I didn't realize there were other Tony Hill fans out there. (grin)

*

He was involved in an animated conversation with Sara when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a blonde entering the room. He felt rather than saw her give him the once over before heading straight for the coffee machine. Then he returned his full attention back to the young brunette who was captivating him with her vast knowledge of seemingly everything.

"You must be Mr. Grissom's favourite," he surmised.

Her brow raised. "Why do you say that?"

"At risk of offending your teammates, who I've obviously yet to meet, I can't imagine anyone else being as quick as you are."

He watched the faint blush stain her cheeks. "We're all pretty quick around here," Sara said. "And I am definitely not his favourite."

Something in her tone sparked a question, and, noticing the shift in his eyes, she laughed. "Don't even go there. Besides," she added as a young tall black man walked through the door, "that's his favourite."

"Yo, Sara," he called as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Who's your friend?"

She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "That's Warrick Brown, the inquisitive one." Sitting up straight again, she answered, "This is Dr. Tony Hill. He's profiling a serial killer from England."

"Boy, you took a wrong turn at Albuquerque," the blonde drawled from a nearby couch.

"That's Catherine Willows…"

"… the independent one," he dropped into the same conspiratorial whisper.

"You know I'm picking your brain later, right?" Sara asked.

He laughed and looked at the other occupants of the room. Raising his cup, he said, "Pleasure to meet you."

"What brings a profiler all the way from England to Las Vegas?" Warrick asked as he sat at the large table.

"I'm about to get to that right now," Grissom answered as he walked through the doorway, Tony's folder under his arm. A young dark haired man entered breathlessly behind him.

"What'd I miss?"

"I'm just getting started, Nick. Take a seat."

All eyes turned their focus to Grissom. Satisfied he had their attention, he began.

"Before we get to the assignments tonight, I'd like to introduce you all to Dr. Tony Hill." Heads turned nodding in polite acknowledgment. "He thinks our priest with the missing hand is connected to a string of murders in England." Grissom lifted the folder for all to see and set it on the table. "I've reviewed the evidence he's given me and I have to say I agree." Tony nodded his appreciation. "Everything else is probably easier for Dr. Hill to explain, so, if you'd like to take over." He motioned for Tony to take his place.

The profiler quickly wiped his palms on the thighs of his trousers and stood up. He hated speaking in front of an audience of any kind. He cleared his throat nervously. "First, my thanks to Mr. Grissom for confirming my conclusions. I find I spend so much time on a case that I can often overlook the evidence in favour of a personal theory." He saw various gestures of agreement from the others. "That being said, I was almost hoping I had been wrong. The murdered priest you found nineteen days ago might have been your first, but I've seen this seven times in the past six months."

Catherine gasped and he was aware that he now had their full attention.

"Five and a half months ago, the case of Father Gregory Reid landed on my desk. Generally, I don't see files until they escalate into several cases. My job is to come up with a profile of a suspect based on a collection of psychological evidence from a number of cases the subject is a suspect in. Hard to draw much from one case." He smiled.

"However," he continued, "it was brought to my attention by a friend on the force who took one look at the evidence and thought it would be best to err on the side of speculation. I looked over the evidence and had to agree."

"The missing hand must have been a red flag," Nick spoke out.

"Absolutely. Such an odd piece of evidence in what would generally be considered a 'normal' murder -if there is such a thing- points towards a serial in the making." Tony answered. "The bloody handprints on the doors were the second big clue." He noticed the looks of confusion facing him. "Oh, I'm sorry. You weren't alerted to anyone finding blood on the door to their house or flat?"

"Nothing we were told," replied Grissom.

"Hmmmm," Tony said, almost to himself. Bringing his gaze from the floor to the faces looking at his for answers, he went on. "It's what he does with the hand. It's why he cuts it off. As far as I can tell, he wraps it up in something absorbent, a towel perhaps, then marks twenty seven houses, seemingly at random."

Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Why twenty seven?"

"He, and it invariably is a man, has a fascination with the number three. Two plus seven equals nine, which is the square of three." More eyebrows raised around the room. "Most serial killers latch on to a pattern of numbers, or letters, or words of some sort. It becomes part of their signature, and often becomes more important to them than the actual killing itself. Any deviation from that particular pattern throws them into a tailspin. Often it's knowing that pattern that is the key to us catching him.

"In this case, it's the number three. Also, all the killings take place on a Monday. That may mean something very important to him, or nothing at all. It could be directly related to the reasoning behind the killings, or it could simply be a random day he chose for the first murder, and he was so pleased with the outcome that it became part of his pattern."

"So what do you think is the reasoning behind the murders, Dr. Hill?" Catherine asked.

"Please, it's Tony," he said. She smiled and nodded. Satisfied, he continued, "Well, they're all Catholic priests, stabbed, and with their left hand removed. Beyond that, there seems to be no correlation between the victims themselves. Not background, education, hobbies, volunteer work, geography. Nothing but their vocation, it would seem."

"No pattern in the names?" Sara asked. "Alphabetical, an increase or decrease in the numbers of the letters? Anything like that?"

Not for the first time since he met her, he smiled in response to her quickness. He noticed Grissom did the same. "Good thinking, but unfortunately, we've tossed that idea out as well."

Undeterred, she tried again. "Prior abuse? Were any of these priests under suspicion or charged?"

He admired her determination. "Only two of the seven."

"Just because the others weren't accused doesn't mean it didn't happen," Nick offered.

Tony noted the soft look from Catherine to Nick. 'There's a story to be told,' he thought to himself. Out loud, he agreed, "Very true. And despite the lack of evidence, I think that's the connection, Nick. We've dug into the congregations of every one of these priests and have yet to narrow anything down. I fear it's a friend or loved one of the abused, which has made it almost impossible to limit the scope. I don't think the perpetrator himself was abused. The nature of the crime, and the crime scenes, leads me to believe it's not a crime of passion. There is something very methodical in the way he goes about his business, and there's no what I would call extra curricular damage done to the body, which I would associate with a more personal and direct connection. He's quick and precise, but not violent. I don't think he feels he's handing out justice; he's merely bringing attention to the injustice he feels is taking place. He doesn't see himself as the judge, he expects others to pass judgment for him."

"Which can explain the bloody handprints. They're a symbolic trail of crumbs, to lead to this man and say, "Look what he's done"," Grissom surmised.

"Exactly."

"So lay it all out and tell us what you need," Sara said.

"Okay, here's what we know. The first murder was on a Monday afternoon, sometime around, not surprisingly, 3pm. Father Reid was found in the confessional, as were most of the others. His left hand was missing. I would guess that the left hand is removed rather than the right because it's the hand one puts on a Bible in court." More nods all around. "Several days later, calls come in from nearby residents reporting blood smears of some kind on their door. Twenty seven doors in each case and the blood matched that specific victim. Twenty one days later, a second murder. Father Daniel Jacobson. Same pattern. Fathers Stephen Graham, Michael Finn, Jeremy Cameron, James Myles, and Paul Wilcox followed, all exactly twenty one days apart."

"Two plus one equals three," Warrick said.

Tony nodded. "The three could mean the number of people he knows, or thinks, were abused. Or it could be the number of years over which the abuse took place. The important thing to note is that number nine is coming up. If he really is acting on behalf of an abuse victim, and isn't one himself, the importance of this number to him could very well be the thing that makes him stop. After this one, he may simply slip back into obscurity."

Grissom spoke up. "What do you need us to do?"

Tony scratched his forehead. "Well, that's a good question, quite frankly. First, I'd like to go to the crime scene, if that's possible. Second. Well, that's a bit more the field of the police, whom I've been denied access to."

"So you've met Sheriff Mobley," Catherine cracked.

"Forget that for now," Grissom dismissed. "If we can do it on our end, we'll circumvent Mobley." All eyes went to him, and he gave a small smirk. "I'll deal with that if and when the time comes."

Now it was Tony's turn to smirk. "Find me a good English pub in this city and I'll treat everyone."

"Woo! I'm in, sign me up." Nick rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"It's boring work, I'm afraid. We need to get some idea as to who the next victim could possibly be. Unfortunately, I've had neither the time nor the resources to do any research into your local religious institutions. To be honest, I'm not quite sure where to start."

Warrick gestured towards the clock. "Whatever it is, we've got less than forty hours."

Grissom stood up. "Okay, here's what we'll do. Sara, you processed the crime scene originally, so why don't you take Tony back out. Catherine, you've got a DB stuffed in a box at the airport."

"Illegal immigrant or C.O.D?" she asked, the trace of a smile belying her innocent tone.

Grissom simply shook his head and handed her the assignment. "Nick, Warrick, I've got a trick roll at the Sands or you can stay here and do the background work for Tony."

Both young men raised their hands. "Research!" They looked at each other and pumped their fists three times. On the third downward motion, Nick kept his fist closed and Warrick held out two fingers.

"Damn," Warrick muttered.

Tony laughed out loud. "Rock, paper, scissors. I'll have to try that with the team back home."

Given their directions, everyone stood up and stretched. In turn, they shook Tony's hand before making their way to the door. 

"Thank you, everyone," Tony said.

"Good luck," Catherine replied.

"Have fun, big boy," Nick drawled to Warrick before grabbing a large mug of coffee. "I have a feeling I'm gonna need this. I'll let ya know what I come up with."

"What are you going to do, Gris?" Sara asked.

"I'm going to go over the physical evidence again in our case and in Tony's. Maybe there's something we've overlooked. Come see me when you two get back."

Sara pointed her finger at him and pulled an imaginary trigger with her thumb. "Will do." She turned to Tony. "Ready?"

*


	3. Chapter3

*

"Is my driving that bad?" she asked as his fingers tightened around the armrest for the third time.

"What? Oh, sorry," he replied, realizing what she noticed. "I'm still not used to driving on the right hand side of the road."

She laughed at his expression. "I guess this is a bit of a culture shock, huh?"

"You could say that," he agreed. "Though I suppose if you live here you get used to it?"

"Get back to me in about ten years. I've lived here for three and it still surprises me."

"What, the city or the fact that you're still living here?"

"A bit of both!"

"Looks like you found a reason to stay."

"Yeah, I love my job," she replied honestly. When she saw his amused expression, she playfully narrowed her eyes at him. "Did I mention earlier to not go there?"

Tony held up his hands in mock surrender. "Say no more."

His hands quickly returned to the newly indented armrests as Sara took a sharp left. "Okay, now it's your driving," he laughed.

"Next time I'll get Nick to drive you."

"I bet he minds every rule of the road," Tony stated.

"He does!" Sara exclaimed. "Drives me crazy. Holds his hands at ten and two. Even does a walk around the truck before we go anywhere." Her curiosity got the best of her and she asked, "How did you know? About Nick, I mean."

"I get the impression that he's not the quickest of you all. I don't mean that as a criticism, since it's obvious that you are all very bright, and quite frankly would have to be to get where you are. But I think that Nick may often feel a bit inferior. So he compensates with efficiency. And when he fails at that, it's a real blow to his confidence."

Sara nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, we had a case about a year ago. He messed up on a chain of evidence procedure. He was so mad at himself."

"But I bet he's gone to great lengths to avoid doing it again, because he takes it as a personal failure."

"You're good. Tell me more," she grinned.

"You know, I'm a psychologist, not a psychic. Generally, I need a bit more than a ten minute staff meeting." He saw she wasn't budging. "All right," he feigned defeat, "but this stays between us." 

Sara made an 'x' over her heart. "I promise."

"So who would you like to know more about?"

Her mouth twisted in thought. "Oh, I don't know. Tell me more about… Catherine."

"When you really want to know more about Mr. Grissom?" She raised an eyebrow, but didn't bite. "Right then," he smiled, "Catherine it is." He took a moment to review the bits of evidence he had been given.

"Most evident is her independence," he began. "Notice how she was the only one to come into the room and not address anyone. She likes to feel in control, even in the smallest detail. There was a notable shift in her body language once she knew who I was. Knowledge is a form of control. Without it, and in this case, without knowing who I was, she felt on uneven footing. Another reason to stay back. It gave her time to find out the information she needed." He stopped to note Sara's rapt attention. He smiled. "Are you writing all this down?"

"Yep," she answered, tapping her forehead.

Tony shook his head in amusement. "She's a mother or the oldest child in a single parent home or fairly large family."

Now Sara's eyes widened. "She's a single mother. How did you know that?"

"I didn't. Remember, what I'm telling you is not knowledge of a person, but a profile of who I think the person may be. I joked earlier that I wasn't a psychic, but it is a serious point to remember." When she nodded her understanding, he continued. "There was a quick yet revealing moment between Catherine and Nick in the break room. Did you see it?"

"No," she admitted.

"It gave me the sense of protectiveness on her part. Almost maternal. And I suspect that's very difficult for her, to balance her natural tendency to protect and her professional need to be independent. It must be difficult being a woman trying to play in the boys' club. In that regard I bet you two have a lot in common. I can't imagine how hard it must be at times."

"You have no idea. Most of the time I don't notice, which probably makes it worse."

"What's that?"

"Those moments when I realize that my gender has come before my ability."

Tony nodded sympathetically. "One day I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Carol."

"Is she a profiler, too?"

"Worse. She's a cop!" Their laughter filled the vehicle.

*

As they pulled up outside the church, Sara turned to Tony. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What do you think you're going to find here? I'm not offended or anything, but I think I covered the scene pretty well."

"I have no doubts that you did," he smiled. "To be honest, I'm not really looking for anything in particular. I think there's only so much reading and analyzing you can do from behind a desk. I often find it's helpful to go to the crime scene. Puts things in a clearer perspective."

"Now that I understand," she agreed. As he unclipped his seat belt, she asked, "Did you want to be alone? Should I stay in the truck?"

He shook his head. "No, please. I'd be happy if you came in with me." She grinned and he knew that was the response she was waiting to hear. As they climbed out of the vehicle, it was his turn to grin. "You're just like a sponge, soaking up all the information you can, aren't you?"

Her grin grew wider. "I aim to please and I live to learn."

"That's a good motto to have." He held the heavy church door open for her and took a look at the city skyline before following her in. "I can't imagine the electricity bill for this city."

He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior, which was in sharp contrast to the extravaganza of lights just outside. Despite there being no physical evidence to establish that a horrible crime had been committed, the church was eerily quiet and bereft of life, as if paying homage to the victim.

"It happened over there," Sara pointed to a small, enclosed booth twenty feet away. She began walking up the aisle when she realized Tony wasn't following her. Rather than ask him why, she quietly took a seat in a nearby pew and simply watched.

Tony looked at the confessional, then to the door behind him, and back to the confessional.

"You wouldn't walk up the aisle because that's the path with the greatest risk of detection," he said almost to himself.

Following another more covert route, he walked silently behind the pews and up the farthest aisle on the left hand side. When he reached the confessional, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

"So what did you do next?" he whispered softly. "Did you have to wait long in this little box? Or did you wait outside? No, that means someone would have been on this side and that would have meant a witness. Photos show a pull back blood splatter outside this door when you pulled the knife out of his stomach. So what did you do while you waited here?" Tony glanced around the suffocating confessional suspecting its smothering darkness elicited declarations of guilt to sins not even committed by the confessor. He hated the dark and he hated enclosed spaces. He was ready to admit to just about anything himself.

"Did you confess what you had done?" he asked. "Did you try and get a confession out of Father Douglas? What happened next?" He felt the sweat begin to trickle down his neck and pool in the hollow of his throat. Despite his outward appearance, his throat was desert dry. It didn't help that he was breathing through his mouth in an attempt to keep the oxygen going to his lungs. It was an act that not only stole the moisture from his throat, but edged him dangerously close to hyperventilation. The dank air was a breeding ground for guilt and fear. It was stifling.

He very nearly broke down the door in an effort to get out. In any other situation, the moment might have been a funny one, as both Sara and Tony jumped back in surprise. 

"What are you…" he breathed, startled by her nearness.

Regaining her own breath, she said, "Sorry. I… I got worried. You were in there for a while and it spooked me."

His heart rate returning to normal, he replied, "Consider us both spooked."

She saw the tension behind his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Her look of worry remained. "Yes," he repeated with more conviction than he may have felt. "I don't like small spaces." In an attempt to lighten the mood, he added, "Though perhaps it's just the guilty Roman Catholic in me." Her face softened and he was glad of it.

He raked his fingers through his short dark hair, leaving it lying at odd angles, as he stood silently for several minutes, absorbing his surroundings. 

"Why this church?" he finally whispered.

"It's where the victim worked," Sara offered.

"But I found no reports of abuse filed against the victim. In fact, he had only been here for eight months. No prior reports. I doubt our man found out much more in the time he had."

"Then why come all this way? I'm sure he could have found any number of potential victims in England, guilty or not."

Tony's eyes snapped up from the floor to Sara as an idea came to him. "Because I suspect he almost got caught the last time. Carol had the scene photographer take pictures of the crowd. There were four people in the crowd we couldn't track down. Perhaps that sent him here."

"So he comes across the ocean just to continue his streak?"

"Remember what I said; the pattern often becomes more important than the reason behind the killings. I don't think the victim is important any longer. Just his vocation, because it perpetuates the pattern."

Sara nodded eagerly, picking up Tony's line of thinking. "It's not the injustice that started this that fuels him now. It's the need to complete the pattern. A drive towards the magical number nine."

"Exactly. He doesn't need to sell himself on the reason behind it. He's beyond that. No justification is necessary."

"Well, I don't think he chose a place called 'Sin City' for nothing, either."

He surprised her with a laugh. "Touché." 

She smiled and then copied Tony's position by looking around and asking, "So again, why this church? I mean, it's dark enough, but it's not all that isolated for the type of thing he had in mind.

Tony's face lit up. "That's it. The lights. Not isolated." Sara tilted her head in confusion. "He doesn't know Las Vegas the way he knows Bradfield and the surrounding countryside. If you'd never been to Vegas before, where would you stay?"

"Somewhere on the Strip. Totally geared for people visiting the city."

"And how far are we from the Strip right now?"

"You saw the lights when we came in," she said. "We're what, about four, five blocks away." She saw Tony smile. "I get it. He doesn't want to stray too far because he doesn't know the area."

"I think that's it exactly."

She made a fist and said, "Yes!"

Warmed by her enthusiasm, he asked, "So what's our next step?"

Her pause was brief. "We gotta go back to the lab. See what Nick's found out." She winked. "See if he's lived up to his efficiency standards."

Tony gestured to the door. "Lead the way, driver."

*


	4. Chapter4

A/N- Many thanks to those who are still reading. Two more chapters after this one.

*

As they made their way through the lab's labyrinth of corridors, Tony was glad to have Sara as a guide.

"I feel like I should be leaving a trail of bread crumbs or unwinding a ball of thread behind me," he said.

She turned and laughed. "Come on, Theseus, I'll show you the way."

Two lefts and a right later, he saw Nick poring over a computer screen, his right hand scribbling notes down on a nearby legal pad. Sara rapped on the glass window to the office. And Nick, his attention now diverted, motioned them in with a jerk of his head.

"How goes it, Nick?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Depends on your definition of 'goes'. I was just going to take this stuff over to Grissom, see what he thinks." Seeing her nod, he gathered up his papers and notes.

The walk to Grissom's office was considerably less convoluted and Tony felt his equilibrium return. After catching Grissom's eye, the trio crowded into the room.

Not wasting any time, Grissom took his glasses off and tossed them onto the desk. "I'll go first, since I probably have the least amount to say," he began. "I double-checked the report. Little or no trace evidence was found at the scene that could be considered helpful. No prints or epithelials, so it looks like the killer wore gloves of some kind. Nothing under the victim's nails, so whatever happened definitely caught him by surprise. Nothing on the victim's clothes except two white fibers, which were identified as cotton. Makes sense now that we know he wrapped the hand in a towel. Knowing that, I re-ran the test. White terry cotton fibers, associated with towels. Very generic towels." He sat back and held out his hands. "And… that's it."

Nick took a small step forward. "Well, I've got an entirely different kind of problem. I got too much information." He rolled out a small map of Vegas on Grissom's desk. Sara and Tony gathered around. "Now, there are over 640 churches in Vegas. I narrowed that number down to 437 Catholic churches and from that, I narrowed it down to 133 Roman Catholic ones." He pointed to the small red marks on the map. "I marked the location of every one of these churches with a red dot. Then I did background checks on as many of the churches as I could. Eight have been in the paper in the last two years because of suspicion of abuse. Those are the blue dots."

"You amaze me with your efficiency, Nick," Sara said honestly.

He looked up in barely concealed embarrassment, and glanced between Tony and Sara. Shaking his head, he answered, "I don't even want to know what kind of things you can glean from a profiler, Sara."

She grinned. "Just say thank you, Nick."

"Thank you Nick," he parroted. Everyone smiled, then Nick returned them all to the task at hand. Gesturing to the map, he continued. "The problem is, eight might not even be an accurate number. Who's to say how many out of the 133 priests are abusers and haven't been accused?"

"We have a bigger problem than that," Tony spoke for the first time. "He may not even be an abuser."

Nick tilted his head in confusion.

Sara picked up Tony's line of thought. "We think the killer has escalated. We couldn't find any past reports on Father Douglas. Maybe because there aren't any. The killer has gone past his original motivations. It's not about justice, it's simply about fulfilling a pattern."

"The pattern has become the motivation," Grissom said.

"Exactly," Tony agreed.

Nick gave a low whistle. "So he's goin' to hit number nine no matter what it takes."

Tony's eyes swept over the map. "Well, he's certainly make it harder for us to predict his next victim. But all is not lost." He looked over to Sara.

"We figured out something else in the church," she said. "It was awfully close to the Strip. Why would he take the chance of pulling off a murder in such a high density area of people?"

Grissom nodded, following the train of thought. "He doesn't know Vegas. He's a tourist here."

"And where do tourists stay?"

"Along the Strip," Nick joined in.

"Right again," Tony said. "So we need to narrow the search down to a five, perhaps six block radius from the Strip."

"We still have a problem." All eyes went to Grissom. "Even if we narrow it down, we're going to need bodies to keep that area on alert. And there's no way Mobley will sign off on those kind of man hours."

Nick grinned. "I'm all over it. I got some buddies on the force who'll do me a favour. It might only be seven or eight guys, but at least that's better than nothin'."

Tony clasped Nick on the shoulder. "Thanks, Nick."

He waved off the gesture. "No problem, man. Glad to do it. In the meantime," he rolled up the map, "I'll see what I can do about narrowing this down." With that, he was gone.

Sara sighed. "I love the feeling of actually accomplishing something."

"You won't be saying that if he comes back with 133 churches in the area," Grissom remarked.

Tony laughed. "Too true." Looking at his watch, he added, "Well, there's really nothing more to do until Monday gets closer. I suppose I should let you get back to some real work."

Grissom shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Tony. It's been slow for a few days and it's kept Sara from doing her paperwork."

She brought her hands to her chest. "Thank you, Tony," she said in over-exaggerated relief. Sara caught Grissom's look and smirked. "Though I guess I could get to that. How do you plan on spending the next 36 hours or so?"

"With something equally exciting," Tony answered. Turning to Grissom, he asked, "Do you have a fax machine?" When Grissom nodded, he said, "I'm going to get Carol to fax a couple of those crowd photos. Since I have no legal authority to do much of anything else, I thought I'd go around to the hotels on the Strip and show the picture. Who knows? Maybe someone will recognize the killer and we can nip this in the bud before Monday."

"You know, you'd get that done much faster if you had help," Sara offered. Catching another, more pointed look from Grissom, she sighed. "All right, all right. Envy me, I'm off to do paperwork!"

Before she had the chance to leave, Tony touched her arm. "You've been invaluable in all this. Thank you."

She flashed him her broadest smile and left.

*

Tony stood in front of the fax machine listening to the soft whir as it printed out the information he had requested from Carol. With Grissom gone to get them coffee, the momentary peace and quiet, coupled with the time difference his body hadn't yet grown accustomed to, conspired to lull him to sleep. In fact, he suspected he had actually dozed off while standing when he nearly jumped out of his skin at Grissom's approach.

Tony laughed away his nerves. "That's the second time today you CSIs have very nearly scared me to death."

"Sorry," Grissom smiled. "Please accept this cup of tea as a token of my apology."

"We really are stereotyped, aren't we?" he asked as he reached out for the cup.

"Not at all. I ran into Sara in the breakroom."

He took a cautious sip of the hot beverage. "Whatever it is you pay her, it isn't enough."

"I know."

Something in the softness of his tone caught Tony's attention, but the beep of the fax machine interrupted any further thought in the matter. Turning back to the machine, he lifted two pieces of paper. One was the crowd shot; the other was a blurry close-up of a figure from that crowd. At the bottom of each page was a note in Carol's familiar handwriting. The first read, 'A t-shirt does not constitute a souvenir.' The second was considerably shorter. 'You're missed.'

Grissom saw the ghost of a smile pass across Tony's mouth, but chose not to inquire after the source of the smile. Tony glanced up and met Grissom's eyes. 

"My friend, Carol. She was the one who gave me the file in the first place. Along with the pictures I requested of her, she took the time to inform me, and I quote, 'A t-shirt does not constitute a souvenir'."

Grissom couldn't help but laugh. More serious, he remarked, "Taking those pictures was a stroke of genius."

Tony shrugged. "I don't know. At the time, it seemed so. Unfortunately, it hasn't seemed to have helped us at all."

"May I?" Grissom asked as he held out his hand.

Tony obliged and sat down. He savoured another drink of his tea.

After several moments, Grissom spoke again. "You know, you told me you couldn't track down four people from this crowd. And there's what, fifteen people in the crowd?" Tony nodded. "I don't think I could tell you which four would have such a questionable life that you couldn't track them down somehow, let alone tell you which one was the killer."

"The 'normalness' of the people who commit such horrible acts still surprises you at times," Tony noted.

Grissom thought about this then replied, "I don't know. The irony is, I'm long past being surprised by the act itself. I don't think there's much left for one person to inflict on another that would surprise me. I deal in the 'how', but rarely in the 'why'. I work with the physical evidence that keeps me removed from the emotional influence of the case. I separate the science from the psychology. But looking at something like this," he lifted the photo, "I can't help but wonder 'why?'"

"If only the workings of the mind could be found in the blood of the body." Tony downed the rest of his tea. "Fortunately, that's where I come in," He smiled and stood up. "I was never very good at science." 

Grissom stood up as well and returned the smile. Scribbling on the back of one of the photos, he handed them to Tony and said, "My pager number. If you happen to find anything or need anything, give me a call." Tony flipped the page over and noted two sets of numbers. Grissom smirked. "The second one is Sara's. I'll never hear the end of it if she's left out of the loop."

*


	5. Chapter5

A/N- One more after this. Thanks for reading.

*

Tony was convinced. He didn't want to see one more flashing light or hear one more clanging bell. 

He had spent the majority of the early morning and half the afternoon walking from one hotel to another, pictures in hand, hoping against hope that there would be a lead. Not surprised when one wasn't to be found, he trudged back to his own hotel, unable to bear the sensory overload one minute longer. He reveled in the blissful silence of his room and fell into a fitful sleep. Waking a few hours later, he was dismayed to find himself still in his clothes. A hot shower and a passable room service meal later, he found himself pacing the length of the room, irritated by his inability to do anything further with the case. 

And that was how he came to be sitting in the breakroom of the CSI lab, eyes closed, enjoying the comfortable median between absolute silence and ungodly sensory stimulation. The room was cool and peaceful, although he was aware of the ordinary sounds of an office busy at work. Most of the lights in the room were off, since he had arrived during early in the evening, while the sun was still blazing in the sky. Although he had received an odd look or two from those who popped in and out from time to time, Tony had, for the most part, been left alone. He was dreaming about the sea when he was disturbed by the soft scrape of a chair being moved. He lifted his head from the back of the couch that had ended up being more comfortable than it had looked at first glance.

Guiltily, Sara apologized. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

He rubbed his eyes, looking all of seven years old, then ran his fingers through his hair, only adding to the look. "It's okay. I wasn't really sleeping." Looking around, he discovered the clock on the far side of the room. "Is that the right time?"

Sara followed his gaze. "Yep. How long have you been… not really sleeping?"

"Oh, only about twenty minutes. I don't sleep that much, truth be told." He saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "You're here awfully early. Doesn't your shift start at eleven?" She smiled and he remarked, "You're almost two hours hours early."

"I don't sleep that much either," she admitted.

"Insomnia or nightmares?"

"A bit of both." She answered, careful to avoid his eyes. When he didn't respond, she finally looked up to find him watching her, patient and curious. "Nightmares mostly. I've never been able to really get rid of them," she added softly.

He nodded sympathetically. "That's where your empathy comes into play. You've learned to remove it as best you can from your professional life, but you haven't found a way to stop it from seeping into your personal life."

"Have you?"

Now he shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I haven't."

Moments of silence passed between them before Sara spoke. "Should I make some tea?"

"That would be nice," he smiled.

*

Curling her long fingers around the hot mug balanced on her knee, she carefully shifted on the couch to look at Tony.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he replied.

"You're the most successful profiler in Britain."

"I'd put more weight into that if there were more than a handful." Seeing her frown at his interruption, he smiled and said, "Sorry. Carry on."

"Thank you. So, most successful profiler in Britain. Which leads to an interesting paradox. In order to be that successful in catching killers, you have to, in some way, be like the killer. There's a very fine line between you two."

"That's very true."

"So what's stopped you from going over that line and not coming back? What's stopped you from killing someone?"

Tony didn't need to feel his face blanche; he could tell by Sara's expression that his own was obvious.

"Shit," she said immediately, "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

He lightly touched her knee to stop her. "No, it's fine." He looked away, then continued. "I was working a difficult case and ended up doing something incredibly stupid that put me in a bad situation. But when it came down to him or me, I didn't hesitate. My conscience is clear in that regard."

His gaze returned to her. "You're right, though," he went on. "It is an interesting paradox. The more successful I am at catching him, the more successful I am at becoming him. I try to apply three important stages to each profile. First, I walk behind him, picking up the little bits and pieces of evidence and information he's left behind. Then, I hope that knowledge helps me walk beside him. To walk with him almost like a friend, where, when he says, "Look!" I see what he's showing me immediately, rather than find it later. Then it's simply a matter of _being_ him. I already know to look before he tells me. I know what he's going to do next because I _am_ him."

The silence stretched out for several minutes until Sara finally whispered, "That must be hard to live with."

He rubbed his hand over his face and gave a rueful smile. "If you're looking for a remedy to your sleepless nights, Sara, I can only tell you this - don't sleep."

*

Nick gripped the door frame as he swung into the breakroom. 

"You're here early, Nick," Sara said.

"Grissom's looking for us."

"What's up?" she asked as she and Tony stood up.

"Well, here's the shit," he made a motion with his hand. "Now, imagine us in the shit. Mobley's in Grissom's office."

"Oh shit," she moaned.

"Exactly, partner. Let's go."

The door to the office hadn't finished closing when Mobley let loose.

"What is this I hear about a CSI commandeering some of my men for a personal side project?"

"I think 'commandeering' is a bit harsh," Nick began.

"Not one more word out of you, Stokes. I'll be speaking to Cavallo about this."

"Brian, there's no need for that," Grissom said.

"Oh, don't worry, Gil, you're name will be on the same list. As supervisor, it's up to you to keep your staff within the boundaries of their job; they shouldn't be impeding on mine."

"I'm not quite sure I follow you, Sheriff Mobley," Tony spoke up. "I was under the impression their job was to solve crimes. There's been a murder. Seems well within the boundaries of their job."

It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Mobley or the three CSIs.

"I should have know you'd be in the middle of this," the sheriff sputtered. "I extend you my hospitality and this is how you repay me."

"Oh please, sheriff," Tony answered.

Mobley held up his finger. "If I could find a way to extradite you from my jurisdiction, don't think for a second that I wouldn't. I'm not sure how things work in England, but I can assure you, circumventing the chain of command isn't how it's done around here. I'm going to be on the phone to _your_ commanding officer the minute I leave this room."

"Mind the time difference."

Mobley frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"The time difference," Tony repeated. "If you call him right now, it will only be…" he paused to do the mental calculations. "Six in the morning. I don't think Paul's ever rolled out of bed before eight."

If a man had ever looked more enraged, Tony had yet to see it. From between clenched teeth, Mobley seethed, "Don't push me." Turning to the other three in the room who had grown curiously silent, he added, "There will be no off hours assistance from my men. And if I hear otherwise," his finger swept across everyone, "the axe will fall on each and every one of you."

The room barely breathed until Mobley left in a furious whirlwind. All eyes then went to Tony who remarked, "What an absolutely ignorant pratt."

Nick's laughter broke the tension and everyone smiled.

"That's it," Sara declared to Tony, "you're never leaving."

Tony shrugged in amusement. "I have the least to lose out of all of you. I might find it's a different matter altogether when I get home of course, but in the meantime…"

"Yeah, in the meantime… what do we do now?" Nick asked.

"I honestly don't know," Grissom admitted. "We have no physical evidence that would suggest where this guy might go next. And we have no psychological clues either."

"I did narrow down those churches," Nick offered.

"Really?" Sara said. "What did you get?"

"Forty-one churches within a six block radius of the Strip. Now, I figured he'd want the church close enough to the Strip so he didn't get lost, but far enough that there would be houses and stuff for his handprint job. I narrowed it down to nineteen churches."

Sara whistled. "Good job, Nick."

"Well, I was happy about it at the time. Nineteen churches, eight friends and us? I liked those odds. But with Mobley all over us, I can't ask those guys to help." Nick looked over to Tony, apologetic.

Tony nodded. "No, believe me, Nick, I understand completely."

"So now what?" Nick asked again.

Tony glanced at his watch, "Well, I'm sure Catherine and Warrick are in the breakroom wondering where everyone is. You all have jobs to do."

"What are you going to do?" Grissom asked.

"Take the file and Nick's map and commandeer your coffee pot and breakroom." He playfully stressed 'commandeer'. "We've got seventeen hours until he kills again. Maybe, just maybe, something out of all this will present itself to me."

Sara's shoulders slumped in defeat. "I hate this."

They all stood silent, hating it too.

Grissom coughed softly. "Unfortunately, Tony's right. Our hands are officially tied and the show does go on." He lifted the sheets for the night's assignments.

As they filed out of the room, Sara muttered, "I really hate this."

*

If nothing else, he would never get lost in Vegas, Tony thought to himself. He sat back in his chair and pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes to no avail; he could see grids and lines on the inside of his lids.

"If you ever get used to driving on the right hand side, I bet you'll be able to find your own way around Las Vegas after tonight."

He smiled at Sara's voice. He pulled out an adjacent chair. "Please, sit. Take me away from this madness."

"So nothing, huh?"

"Nothing. How about you?" he asked. "On the telly, they always make it look like you CSIs are constantly following the trail of evidence. Yet I'm not sure I've seen you work the entire time I've been here."

"Very funny," she replied with a smirk. "You know, in many ways, CSIs are like actors. Ninety percent waiting, ten percent action. I'm waiting for Greg to run tests on some blood samples I brought in tonight."

He looked up at the clock and was surprised to find five hours had seeped away. "My goodness. It's 5 a.m. and I'm not any closer than I was when I landed here."

"None of those churches ring any alarms?"

"None."

Sara sat forward and rested her chin in her hand. She idly pushed the map around until asking, "If you were back home right now, how would you handle it?"

He shrugged and replied, "I've got a friend on the force. I'd ask her if she could help me get around my commanding officer's order." He looked at Sara. "Discreetly, of course."

She smiled back. "Of course." She sat upright. "Of course. Brass!" At Tony's questioning expression, she clarified, "He's captain of the night shift homicide squad. Maybe Grissom can talk to him and see what he can come up with before this afternoon."

In that moment, everything froze.

"…before this afternoon." __

"I've come all this way."

The time difference his body had yet grown accustomed to.

"…isn't how it's done here."

"Mind the time difference."

"The time difference."

"The time difference," Tony whispered.

"What?" she asked.

Tony frantically began leafing through the file, his finger tracking down the page until it stopped at one line.

Worried, Sara asked again, "What is it?"

"I've been such an idiot," he said. Looking up as if just remembering Sara was in the room, he repeated, "I've been a complete idiot. My god." He turned the file so she could read what he had found. "The time of death."

"Seven a.m.," Sara read, then looked up in confusion. "But that doesn't make any sense. It doesn't fit the pattern."

Tony shook his head in excitement. "It makes perfect sense, Sara." He couldn't help but laugh. "He's still on British time."

Sara looked at Tony in disbelief and gave a small laugh of her own. "Wow." Glancing at the clock, her expression became more serious. "That means we have less than two hours."

*


	6. Chapter6

A/N- This is it. Thanks to all who kept with it. I can't tell you how good I feel about the story and I'm glad that others enjoyed it, too. For those unfamiliar with Tony Hill and are interested in getting to know him better, he is the creation of Val McDermid, and thus far, is in three books. As well, those clever Brits have taken this character and made a series of one-shot episodes about him available on PAL video and Region 1/0 DVD. For more information, check out www.valmcdermid.com. 

*

"What exactly are we lookin' for?" Nick asked from the back seat of the Tahoe.

"To be honest, I don't really know, Nick," Tony answered. "But I simply couldn't sit and wait for the call to come in."

Thirty minutes ago, Grissom had been brought up to speed.

"This only makes our job that much more difficult," Grissom said. Tony and Sara nodded in agreement. "Tony, have you found anything that could point us in the direction of the killer?" He didn't need to see the profiler's expression to know the answer. "So we're still at square one."

"I'm afraid so," Tony admitted. With his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. "I'm going to take Nick's map and go around to the churches he isolated."

"What for?" Sara asked.

Tony shrugged. "What more can I do here but wait? I need to feel like I haven't given up."

She nodded in understanding. "Okay, I'll drive you."

"Sara…" Grissom began.

"No Grissom, really. Tony'll probably kill himself trying to drive. Besides, it's going to take Greg at least another two hours to get to my samples."

"It's not your job I'm worried about."

She smiled at his concern. "I know. But honestly, what could happen?" Before Grissom could reply, she continued, "What are the chances we'll find anything? And even if we do, I hardly fit the victim's profile."

Despite her smile, Grissom remained unconvinced, and yet he knew there was nothing he could say that would sway her. "Take Nick." At the roll of Sara's eyes, he repeated more firmly, "Take Nick with you. I mean it." He looked over to Tony for help.

"Absolutely," he answered.

"He's working a B'n'E with Warrick over at the Mirage. Swing by and pick him up. And call Brass. Let him know what you're doing and keep him informed."

That was thirty minutes ago. In that time, they had driven by seven churches and had found nothing out of the ordinary, though if pressed, none of the three could have said exactly what they were looking for.

"How much easier would things be if the bad guys glowed in the dark?" Nick mused.

Sara took her gaze away from the road momentarily to give Nick a look.

"What?" he asked, before laughing.

As they pulled up to the next church on the list, Tony's hand reached out and touched the steering wheel. "Oh, yes."

Nick and Sara followed his gaze. It was a stately building, its age adding to the effect. The two arched doorways loomed at the top of the well-worn stone steps, but it was the detailed stained glass image high above the doors that had caught Tony's eye.

"Christ and His twelve disciples," Tony whispered. His seatbelt was undone before Sara had brought the vehicle to a stop.

"Twelve. One plus two equals three," Nick said.

*

It had taken a considerable amount of explanation and persuasion to convince the priest of the severity of the situation. But in the face of two criminalists and a profiler, he made the concession. In reward, Tony found himself back in the stifling box of the confessional, except this time he was on the other side of the screen, and was wearing a black ministerial layer over his white dress shirt. He resisted tugging at the collar for the fourth time since entering the booth. When Sara had asked him if he was sure he wanted to go through with it, he assured her that he did. He wondered now if it was too late to change his mind.

Outside, Sara had called Brass to let him know what was going on. At Tony's insistence, she had asked for only Brass to come by. "No sense the entire force seeing us with egg on our faces if I've cocked this one up," Tony had said. Now, it was simply a waiting game.

Tony could hear Sara's voice inside his head. 'I hate this. I really hate this.' As he looked around his suffocating confinement, he thought the very same thing. Fifty minutes in, one hour and twenty minutes since the realization of the time difference, forty minutes to go. And nothing had happened except the embarrassing moment when he had no choice but to listen to the confession of an eighty year old woman who had poisoned her neighbour's cat and now felt remorse. 'Seventy years sooner and I would be measuring you for a serial killer's suit,' he thought wryly. He looked up and said, "Sorry, Lord." He heard the snicker of the occupant beside him. After the confession debacle, Sara had decided it would be best to sit in until the closest possible moment, in the hopes that further accidental confessions would be avoided.

"What was that for?" she whispered.

"I was just thinking- I wonder how many Hail Marys one would have to do after giving absolution to a confessor while under the guise of being a priest?"

"A hundred should cover it, I would think," she replied. She could faintly make out his profile through the intricate partition between them. "How are you? You okay in there?"

He took a deep breath and tried not to think of his surroundings. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Well, let's see, what have I learned about the esteemed Dr. Tony Hill since I've met him? Likes tea," she felt his smile, "is incredibly smart, has acute insomnia, doesn't like giving speeches in front of a group of people, and is claustrophobic." 

"Now you've left me with nothing to confess," he complained good-naturedly.

"I won't even touch that one," she said. "Besides, you're on the wrong side of the screen."

"Ah, that would mean you're in the confessor's seat. So, Miss Sidle, anything you'd like to confess to?"

"Hoo-boy," she sighed. "Where to begin? Well, I'm in love with my boss despite the fact that those feelings might not be returned." Smirking, she looked at her watch. "And that's all the time we have for today. We've got about twenty minutes left. I should leave."

"Wherever you go, under no circumstances should you allow him to see you," Tony warned.

"I got it," she answered. "Nick's across the street in the Tahoe. I talked to Brass when he pulled up. I have no idea where he is, which is probably a good thing."

"Where will you be?"

"I'm heading out to join Nick. But I'll try to keep prospective confessors at bay for as long as I can."

He joined her quiet laughter. "Thank you."

"No problem." There was a short silence on her end until she lightly knocked on the partition between them. He very quietly slid it open and looked into her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I want you to be careful," she replied.

"I will."

"I mean it. Here." She handed him her gun.

"What's this?"

"It's a gun," she smirked. Quickly becoming serious, she added, "I want you to take it." When she saw the surprise shake of his head, she repeated, "I want you to take it. Please."

He dutifully held out one hand and covered hers with the other. "Thank you, Sara."

"When we catch this bastard, I'm going to find you that English pub." She winked and silently slipped out of the booth.

*

He was halfway through the recollection of the New Testament chapters when he heard the door to the other side gently squeak open. A body shuffled until it got comfortable in the seat. There was a small cough, then a voice.

"Forgive me, Father. It's been twenty one days since my last confession."

Rather than fear, Tony now felt a blanket of calm descend upon him. He absently tapped the grip of the gun resting on his thigh. Doing his best to disguise his accent, he said, "What is it, my son?"

"I… I've done some terrible things."

"What have you done?"

"I… I can't tell you."

"I'm not here to judge you. Only God can judge you."

"Why does He let me do the things I do? Why does He let Man do the things he does?"

Tony closed his eyes. "He gave us all the ability to choose. Men do the things they do because God has given them the choice. You do the things you do because He has given you the choice."

"What about the people who suffer because of my choices? What about the innocents?" The voice began to sob.

"Tell me what you have done."

"No, no, I can't!" 

Tony heard the door slam open and saw the dark outline of the killer leaving the booth. Bolting out of his seat, Tony was ready to pursue, when, coming face to face with the killer outside the booth, he realized his mistake.

"So that's how you lured them out," he whispered. "You played upon their empathy and charity and lured them out to follow you."

The killer looked startled, as if confused that the scene wasn't playing out the way all the others had. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter," Tony answered. "I'm not number nine."

In the time it took for the killer to press the tip of the ornate knife against Tony's stomach, Tony had pressed the muzzle of Sara's gun against the killer.

The killer's eyes opened wide. "They weren't innocent, you know? None of them were."

"None of us are." 

Tony flinched as the tip pierced the cloth of the coat and his shirt and drew blood. But his stance never wavered. It was that moment that Brass chose to enter the scene, his own gun drawn.

"Drop it!" he warned.

The killer's head whipped around, confused and frantic.

"Now it's all gone to hell in a hand basket, hasn't it," Tony said. When the killer looked back to him, Tony asked, "What's your name?"

"Sean."

"Okay, Sean. We're going to talk about this very calmly. You are a very sick bastard and if you make a move, that man over there will shoot you. And if you make a move and that man happens not to shoot you, I will."

"Don't judge me!!" 

The echo of his accusation reverberated throughout the huge church, almost masking the sound of a gun being cocked back. However, Brass didn't miss it.

"Dr. Hill, just remain calm, okay?" he appealed, worried that the situation was going from bad to worse faster than he could keep up.

"I've killed someone, you know," Sean warned.

Tony could feel reason slipping away and he fought to maintain control. "So have I," he answered simply. "Did it make the second one easier? I've always wondered."

There was something in the profiler's eyes that was fearfully unreadable. Sean took two panicked steps backwards and dropped the knife. "Keep away from me!"

In a heartbeat, Brass was all over the killer, pressing him into the floor and yanking his arms back behind him. The click of the handcuffs was the quietest sound since it all began, but to Tony, it was the most satisfying. He slowly lowered the gun and slumped to the floor on his knees. The soft feel of Sara's arm around him caused him to look up slowly.

"I didn't see you come in," was all he said.

"We came in right behind Brass," she answered. Seeing a dark stain on the black fabric, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"What? Oh," he looked down at the stain. "He must have pierced the skin. Nothing major."

"Come on, let's get you up." She put her arm under his and helped him to his feet. "Tony?" She waited for his attention to turn to her. When she saw the vacancy in his eyes, she cupped his face. "Tony? You're going to be fine, okay?"

He nodded as the life slowly returned. The warmth of her brown eyes seeped into his soul and he smiled weakly. "Okay."

"Good," she said, giving him a smile of her own. "Now, can I have my gun back?"

He looked down at the weapon still ready to fire in his hand. With great care, he returned the hammer back to its place and flicked on the safety. Letting it go, he held it by the trigger guard, harmless as it hung on his finger.

"Have you ever fired it?" he asked.

"You mean, besides at the shooting range? No."

"Good," he said. "Good."

*

"… with the assistance of the best forensics lab in the country along with the diligence of the Las Vegas Police Department, this man will never kill again. Our prayers go out to the family of Father Raymond Douglas. I hope the knowledge that justice will be served swiftly and to its fullest gives some small measure of comfort to his family. Thank you."

Grissom gave a derisive snort. "First of all, we're the second best lab in the country."

"Diligence of the Las Vegas Police Department my ass," Nick joined in.

"He was wearing a lovely tie, though," Tony commented.

"Put the football game on, Jerry," Warrick called to the bartender.

"Somehow the name Jerry doesn't bring England immediately to mind," Tony noted.

Sara laughed. "Sorry. It's the best I could do on such short notice."

Catherine raised her glass. "To people far from home."

"To friends, English and otherwise," Tony added.

They all joined in the toast and took a drink.

"So what's next for you, Tony?" Grissom asked.

He sighed. "Oh, back home to sleepy Bradfield, I suppose. I posted a notice around the local pubs to let the serial killers know I'd be away, so…"

They all laughed.

"It's too bad Vegas gets first crack at McNally," Nick remarked. "It seems a shame that he won't be prosecuted in the country where he inflicted the most pain."

Tony shrugged. "It's not really my place to seek justice. I only seek the truth. Although I'm sure the families of the other victims would have preferred to see him rot in an English prison, perhaps they'll take some comfort in knowing that at least he's been caught."

"And that there's the death penalty in Nevada," Warrick added.

The bar cheered as someone scored on the big screen T.V.

"You do know that's not real football, right?" Tony quipped. "I mean, all that padding and those helmets. And with the exception of one player on the team, they don't even touch the ball with their foot. It's just not right."

They all laughed again, and turned their attention to the game. Tony leaned into Sara's shoulder and whispered, "Do you think you could give me a ride to the airport tomorrow afternoon?"

She nodded, "Sure, no problem."

He fought against a smile. "In return, I'll tell you all about Grissom."

*

End.


End file.
